Come What May
by tamiiland
Summary: Pre-G1. Jazz knows the war is coming. Prowl, for once, simply wants to unwind and enjoy his cube of energon.


**Universe:** Pre-G1

**Warnings:** Sorta-kinda bromance; alien politics and cussing.

**Author's Note:** So, um… yeah. This is a birthday gift for the lovely **Alathea2**. I think she likes Jazz and Prowl as a couple but I wanted to stay on the safe side and went for a 'just friends' kind of relationship. Hope you dig, femme! All my adoration and best wishes and energon traits have been fired at you; duck and cover or face the love!

PS: I have no idea why Jazz is over at Prowl's so early in the morning.

**Special Feature:** _Jazz or Prowl_ by dA artist **ark-c** (fav. me/d1m2s7k)

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**Come What May**

It was a particularly peaceful dawn in Praxus. The pitch-black of night slowly gave way to the lively orange-white of morning but the common hustle and bustle of spaceships and Cybertronians had yet to make itself known. Praxus was a restless city, never fully immersed in peaceful slumber since there was always someone that either stayed up or rose early, so the rare quietness that welcomed the beginning of that day was both unnerving and relaxing.

Prowl's systems hummed quietly as he sipped at his cube of energon, comfortably settled in his armchair and waiting for the datapad in his servos to download the daily news; his door-wings were placidly drooped behind him in a decidedly serene posture. He placed the beverage on the armrest to his left and spared yet another glance out his flat's picture window. In all honesty, the view was what had convinced Prowl of purchasing the penthouse. He _had_ estimated how long it would take him to get to work from there and he _had_ calculated the possibilities of being robbed due to owning such a fancy flat but, in the end, Prowl had caved in to his own displeasingly impulsive wishes. Being able to sweep his steady gaze through most of Praxus made him feel safe in the world he lived.

In spite of himself, Prowl glanced to his right to begin the morning by frowning at the sight of Jazz glugging down his own ration of fuel. His regular dose of amicable ribbing was cut short, however, when he noticed the pensiveness in his friend's expression and his shy, almost solemn sips. Prowl stared at him for a few moments before going back to his datapad with only a marginal shake of the helm. Jazz was not the kind of mech to keep quiet whatever made him restless for long. Interrupting his musings or forcing his answers would usually simply backfire, so it was best to simply leave him be. Logging into the _Assembly_'s main net, he started to open the files of that date's most relevant datalogs.

"Hey, Prowler," Jazz then murmured, and Prowl noticed how he remained stubbornly relaxed, as if trying to force his characteristic laid-back vibes out of him.

Prowl levelled his friend with a courteous look. "Yes?"

Jazz opened his mouth, closed it, made a tiny grimace, and finally slumped further into his own armchair. He stared meditatively into the contents of his cube, looking positively miserable. Prowl frowned; Jazz was anything but that. Still-dim morning light had started to seep into the flat, wrapping the room and both mechs in soft orange-white hues. It contrasted harshly with the gloomy atmosphere Jazz was creating and that unsettled Prowl to a greater extent. He knew his friend even better than he knew himself and he was 99.9899% sure that this kind of moods were unnatural.

Prowl lowered his datapad and reached out for his own cube, patiently waiting for Jazz to organise his troubled thoughts. A slight tremble of his door-wings belied the controlled unease he refused to show.

"You think the war's comin'?"

The words left Jazz's vocalizer in a clipped, controlled voice. In fact, there was a 67.8654% chance that Jazz had spoken that way to be taken seriously. An unneeded procedure; Prowl never joked. Nonetheless, even he wanted to give a good-natured snort at how such a delicate question had been laid so rashly for him to answer. He should have seen it coming, of course, because the mech he was dealing with was none other than Jazz, who would quite possibly be horribly blunt until he passed.

Shuttering his optics with staged indifference, Prowl shrugged noncommittally as he went back to skimming through the datapad in his servo. He was aware that Jazz had been waiting for a more precise reply—or, in any case, a verbalized one—but knew that his friend wouldn't appreciate the results of his statistics.

Thus, he waited for said friend to continue his musings aloud.

"'Cause I've been doing some thinkin'—a lot of thinkin'—and I kinda reached a conclusion. And it really ain't all that pretty," Jazz said, running a thumb across his visor. Prowl noticed it to be a paler blue than usual and automatically blamed it on a deficient recharge. "I know I'm not that good at stats or whatever—that kinda stuff's up _your_ alley of expertise—but I keep havin' these nasty feelings. So I wanna know what ya think about all this."

Prowl turned off his datapad with a resigned sigh and placed it aside, focusing his attention on Jazz. He felt tempted to pretend obliviousness and enquire for more specificity, but the possibility of annoying the other mech was too high for comfort—around 79.7086%—so instead he decided to avoid giving a direct answer. "I believe you're familiar with the way my processor works."

Jazz gave a tiny nod and mumbled into his cube, "Ain't no loose ends."

"Precisely," Prowl said. He eyed Jazz with fractionally narrowed optics, trying to determine if he should be worried by his friend's troubled state of mind. "My system works with data and its proper interpretation. I don't experiment those 'nasty feelings' you have because everything is calculated."

"So does that stupid Kaonian blow us all to slaggin' bits in your damn calculations or what?" Jazz snapped, losing his temper quicker than normal. He grimaced and muttered an apology before he finally gave in to his old ways and took a deliberated swig of energon. Tight hydraulics let out a strained hiss as Jazz forced them to loosen. "It's just… This all's so weird. I feel jumpy and edgy, and that ain't like me. Makes me feel like this huge storm's comin' right at us and we can't even see it. Know what I mean?"

Of course he did, but that didn't mean that he was about to admit it out loud.

Instead, Prowl hummed quietly and gazed out the window as he pondered what Jazz had said. His optimistic-self—even logic-ridden mechs like him had that trait—wanted to exasperatedly shrug off his friend's doubts and go back to reading his datapad, muttering things about inane fears and whatnot. Meanwhile, his fixatedly-rational-self insisted upon blurting out how improbable it was to resolve the situation in a way that didn't require violence. Prowl was not the kind of mech who felt the need to sigh in frustration quite often, but his inner dwelling suddenly became very taxing.

So, he sighed long-sufferingly.

"I don't really see why you would trust such unreliable forebodings, Jazz," Prowl said. "They are _not_ to be relied upon. They aren't precise."

"Well, they're the only thing I have," Jazz protested, doing a wide motion with his arms and almost spilling what was left of his energon. "S'not like I can go 'round doing instant maths outta everything and calculatin' the pros and cons and I dunno what else like you. I wasn't programmed that way and you know that better than anybot."

"I suppose I do, yes," Prowl conceded. He raised an optic ridge marginally. "That's why this behaviour of yours is making my processors overheat."

Jazz frowned, his drink momentarily forgotten. "What?"

"You're not being yourself," Prowl clarified, and then let his gaze slide to one side. "In a figurative, non-physical sense, of course."

The visored mech stared for a few moments at him with a befuddled expression; suddenly, he burst out laughing, filling the large living room with his deep chortle. Prowl felt a little self-satisfied smile tug at the corners of his mouth-plates. Chances of making Jazz laugh with that inane little comment had been high—93.5642% _exactly_—but that didn't make Prowl's achievement any duller, despite its predictability. Making a friend laugh always felt pleasant, especially if said friend was going through a state of mild depression.

Jazz's mood swings made Prowl feel personally compelled to take care of his happy-go-lucky attitude, as boring and socially-challenged as he may be. He had even gone as far as to write a joke subroutine to add to his programming. Obviously, his HUD flashed obscenities at him every time the new software started running, and he admitted to be somewhat afraid of acknowledging the level of awkwardness and/or 'complexity' his jokes could reach sometimes. He had absentmindedly done the calculations, and those files were now encrypted deep down his processor, never to be decoded.

Truth be told, the subroutine did him more harm than good, both personally and a professionally—but Prowl's statistics still told him that the helm-ache was the lesser of two evils, and he trusted his numbers blindly. A distressed Jazz was not exactly something easy to deal with.

"Sometimes, ya can be such a joker," Jazz chuckled, his frantic laughter winding down. "A kinda lame one, but a joker still."

"I will take that ambiguous comment as a compliment."

"Y'should. You totally should," Jazz said, reaching out and patting his forearm affectionately. He downed his energon and stood up with a swift movement. "Anyway, I'll go put this back in th' dispenser."

Prowl retrieved his datapad and turned it on again. "Very well," he replied with casual ellegance.

"Don't go anywhere," Jazz threatened mockingly. "Oh, wait, ya want me to take your cube? You're done, right?"

Prowl looked down at his cube, still not completely drained of its contents. It didn't look very appetising; he was more in the mood for a good datalog or two. Besides, his energon tanks were already filled with the amount of fuel that was needed for proper functioning. He held out his cube for Jazz to grab. "Yes, I'm full. You may take it."

Jazz leaned forwards, giving his knuckle-joints a friendly pinch before claiming the drink. Prowl raised an optic ridge, watching with shrouded amusement as his friend waltzed into the supplies room to the rhythm of an imaginary tune. Before disappearing through the door, though, Jazz twirled and stuck is glossa out at him for the briefest of instants. His visor was a vibrant turquoise, full of life and jovial cheekiness.

Prowl relaxed against his armchair, letting his door-wings droop placidly once more.

Jazz was temporarily happy again, and he had avoided answering any spark-breaking questions with a success rate of 85.3456%. There was always the frustratingly common variant of the mech suddenly remembering what Prowl wanted him to forget, but he trusted that his friend wouldn't be bringing up the topic again for a while.

Besides, when the war broke out, Jazz wouldn't have to worry about a thing; Prowl had already planned out their lives as neutrals and, in case that didn't work, he had already selected which galaxy they would escape to after deserting.

They would remain together and look out for each other better than spark-brothers did, just like they always had.

Prowl looked down at his datapad, rumbling his contentment quietly.

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**Author's End-note:**

The _Assembly_ – A Praxian building which houses facilities for all kinds of social and/or intelectual activities.


End file.
